“Elizabeth,” he murmured.
“Fitzwilliam,” she answered, tasting his name for the first time.
For a while, neither of them moved. They stood together, hands clasped, hearts at last in accord — two people who had travelled a long and rocky road and finally reached their destination.
Epilogue
July 1815 — Pemberley
The drawing room at Pemberley glowed with the soft amber of many candles and the deeper gold of summer dusk slipping through the tall windows; a grand pianoforte stood at one end, a gift from Mr Darcy to his sister, Georgiana, when she turned nineteen.
The room was full — full of laughter, full of relations, full of the easy, contented hum that comes when people who once feared ruin now find themselves securely and utterly happy.
Elizabeth stood a little apart, half-hidden by the curve of a velvet curtain, her eyes wandering over the scene with the quiet pleasure of a woman who has learnt how very much she may trust in joy. Her gaze searched the room until it found him — her husband — standing near the fireplace in earnest conversation with Mr Bingley, Mr Bennet, Mr Gardiner, and Colonel Fitzwilliam. The sight of him, tall and serious, listening with that familiar slight tilt of the head, still had the power to quicken her pulse even after nearly three years of marriage.
Three years of wondering at her happiness every single day. When he had proposed for the second time, in the grove near Longbourn, she had promised gratitude was not her strongest feeling for him; that had been true then and everymoment ever since. There was tenderness, affection, respect, admiration, love, and passion — all mixed in her soul and in her mind, all for the only man in the world who was perfectly suited to her. But there was gratitude too; how could there not be when she had received so much in a moment when she had feared she had lost everything?
When the news that she was to marry Mr Darcy had reached her family and neighbours, its effect had been hilarious and embarrassing at the same time. Mrs Bennet had come nearest to fainting in earnest, clutching her smelling salts while she cried out her joy for hours, that day and many that followed. The entire neighbourhood shared the same amazement and disbelief, doubting the report until the wedding day.
Mr Bennet had called Elizabeth to the library and drawn her into an embrace so fierce it startled them both.
“Only two months ago,” he had said, voice rough with feeling, “when Lydia ran off with that scoundrel, I was certain our entire family was ruined — that the lives of you girls would all end in misery. And now here you are, both you and Jane to marry the worthiest of men, and so perfectly suited to you I can scarcely believe my own eyes.”
Then, with the old wicked glint returning, he had added, “Though I begin to suspect the reason Mr Darcy was so uncommonly eager to chase after Wickham and Lydia had less to do with moral duty and more to do with a certain pair of fine eyes.”
Since their wedding day she had learnt the meaning of a blissful marriage to a man who loved her ardently. Every day. Their son, young master Darcy, had just turned one — dark-haired, solemn-eyed, already showing signs of his father’s gravity and his mother’s quick smile. He was in a sweet, amusinggame with his cousin, Charles Edward Bingley, a sunny child who looked like his mother. Mrs Bennet declared herself the most fortunate mother and grandmother in England and never tired of saying so.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, now happily married to Lady Amelia, Lord Browning’s youngest daughter, had brought their little girl, a bright-eyed beauty of two who toddled fearlessly after the older children.
Since the eldest sisters’ marriage, Lydia, Kitty, and Mary spent much of their time between Netherfield and Pemberley. Under the gentle influence of their sisters and the steady example of Georgiana, they had improved remarkably: Lydia’s high spirits were tempered now with something like thoughtfulness; Kitty had grown lively without being wild; Mary’s pedantry had softened into genuine accomplishment.
The shadow of Lydia’s elopement had lifted entirely, with none of the consequences that the family had so feared ever coming to pass. That episode had faded into neighbourhood anecdote, especially once it became known that Wickham had languished for several months in prison before being transported.
Only Lady Catherine de Bourgh refused to forgive or forget. She had quarrelled violently with her nephew when the report of his engagement to Elizabeth reached her. She had declared the union ‘degrading beyond endurance’ and had not spoken to any of them since. Darcy bore the estrangement with calm dignity, Elizabeth with secret relief.
Across the room, Georgiana — ever the gracious hostess — smiled at something Jane said. The pianoforte waited. Presently, Lydia rose with a theatrical little flourish, crossed to the instrument, and seated herself. Georgiana joined herat once, the sisters-in-law exchanging a conspiratorial glance. Kitty hurried forwards to turn pages; Mary, to everyone’s quiet astonishment, stepped up to sing. When the first notes sounded — a lively duet arranged for four hands — and Mary’s clear, surprisingly sweet voice rose above them, a ripple of pleased surprise ran through the room.
Elizabeth felt a light touch at her waist. She turned to find her husband beside her, his arm slipping gently around her.
“You were far away,” he murmured, voice pitched for her ear only.
“Not far,” she answered softly. “Only remembering.”
He followed her gaze to the pianoforte, where Lydia laughed at some small mistake, and Georgiana patiently corrected it. Mary sang on, earnest and unexpectedly lovely.
“Three years,” Elizabeth whispered. “And still, I sometimes wake wondering whether it is all a dream.”
Darcy’s arm tightened a fraction. “Then I must keep reminding you,” he said, “that it is no dream. Though, seeing our sisters all playing together, and remarkably well, it is more than I ever dreamt,” he joked as he whispered in her ear again.
“It is like a play,” he continued, “which took many dramatic turns until it reached a most unexpected ending.”
“True.” Elizabeth smiled. “Speaking of plays, do you remember the play we watched when we met at the theatre in May, three years ago?”
“I most certainly remember every single moment of that evening, from the instant I laid eyes on you. Not the play, though, as I did not care much about it.”
Elizabeth slipped her hand into her husband’s. He laced their fingers together without a word.
At the pianoforte, Lydia struck a dramatic final chord. Georgiana laughed. Mary blushed at the applause. The room rang with approval and affection.
